The Viking's Touch. Joanna Fulford

had no right to pronounce on the matter.’ Anwyn met his gaze. ‘Yet their suspicions were perhaps not without foundation.’

      ‘We intend no harm if that is what you mean. We have business elsewhere and once our repairs are complete we will leave.’

      ‘I see. May I ask whither you are bound?’

      ‘We go to join Rollo.’

      ‘Rollo? But he’s a notorious pirate.’

      ‘That’s right.’

      Anwyn paled a little. ‘You are mercenaries then.’

      ‘Correct.’

      This frank admission was deeply disquieting, and rendered all the more so by her inability to read what lay behind that outwardly courteous manner.

      ‘However,’ he continued,’ until we can repair our vessel all else is irrelevant.’

      ‘I can see that.’

      ‘Have we your permission to stay and do the necessary work?’

      She took a deep breath. ‘I think you have no choice since your ship cannot leave without it.’

      ‘We could leave under oars,’ he replied, ‘but the next large wave we encountered would likely sink us.’

      ‘How long will it take to mend the damage?’

      ‘With luck, a few days only.’

      Relief washed in. She nodded. ‘Very well. Carry out your repairs if you will.’

      ‘I thank you.’ He paused. ‘One thing more I would ask.’

      ‘And that is?’

      ‘The use of a forge if you have one—and a carpenter’s workshop.’

      ‘That’s two things.’

      He smiled. ‘So it is. But then, as I am a mercenary, it cannot surprise you that I should try to secure the best possible bargain.’

      His words drew a reluctant answering smile. Inwardly she wondered if she could trust him or whether this was some kind of trick. All the same, the only way to be free of the problem now was to help him.

      ‘We have both things. Send some men to Drakensburgh tomorrow and we will show them where.’ She pointed to the dunes. ‘The way is yonder, due west about half a league distant.’

      ‘Again, my thanks, lady.’

      Anwyn nodded and turned her horse’s head. Then, accompanied by Ina, she rode back to where Jodis and Eyvind were waiting. Wulfgar looked on in some surprise; he had been so preoccupied with events that he not noticed the presence of the other two figures at the edge of the beach. They were too far away for him to make out details, but again his curiosity stirred. Who were they? What was their connection with Lady Anwyn? He watched as they exchanged a few words and then all four rode away through the dunes.

      ‘A mighty pretty woman,’ said Hermund, when the last of the riders was gone from view. ‘Courageous, too.’

      ‘Aye, she is,’ replied Wulfgar.

      His companion chuckled softly. ‘I thought that Grymar oaf was going to explode. I’d like to be a fly on the wall when he gets back.’

      ‘So would I.’

      ‘His master doesn’t sound much better.’

      ‘Ingvar?’ said Wulfgar. ‘No matter. We’re not like to meet him anyway.’

      ‘Small mercies, eh?’

      ‘As you say.’

      ‘Well, now that peace has broken out I guess we can get on with those repairs.’

      Wulfgar nodded. Then, divesting himself of weapons and armour, he rejoined his men and set to. However, although his hands were busy, his mind returned to recent events and he smiled to himself. Hermund was right; the woman was courageous. He’d never met anyone quite like her. Anwyn. He wouldn’t forget the name or the face, either. No man would. Yet it was the eyes he remembered most clearly; eyes as green as a summer sea and deep enough to drown in …

      Unbidden, the memory returned of another pair of eyes, blue this time and bright with welling tears. The face was harder to recall now, though once it had occupied his every waking thought. Freya: golden-haired, gentle, quiet … her beauty had captivated the youth he had been. Captivated for a while, at least. In the final analysis he had been a poor husband to her.

      No doubt Lady Anwyn’s lord was smart enough to know what he had; a woman of fire with wit allied to beauty and courage. He caught himself then—where was her husband? If the lady had found it necessary to deal with the situation herself it argued that her man was away—fighting, no doubt. It was a common enough occurrence. Had he not done the same?

      He sighed. It was too late for regret or remorse, though he had experienced both. We are the decisions we make. It was true, thought Wulfgar, which was why he found himself wandering the earth with a group of mercenaries: fighting, feasting, living for the day. It wasn’t a bad life, take it all in all. Anyway, what else was there now? Eventually, of course, his luck would run out, or the gods would tire of him, and he would meet his end on some field of battle. So long as he died with a sword in his hand and could take his place in Odin’s hall, the time and place of his demise mattered little. All that mattered was the readiness.

      The afternoon’s encounter had also left Anwyn much preoccupied and not a little concerned. It dominated her thoughts even after she had retired. By now Lord Ingvar would have heard the tale and would, no doubt, be greatly displeased. She could almost certainly expect another visit from him in the near future. As if that were not enough a force of trained mercenaries was presently encamped on her land, or as good as. Now that there was leisure to reflect, she wondered if her earlier decision had been the right one. She sighed. It was too late for that. If they chose to take advantage, she would be caught between a rock and a hard place. Yet their leader had not seemed treacherous to her. On the contrary.

      Unbidden, his face returned in sharp relief. The memory was disturbing. She had never met anyone quite like him; he bore all the trappings of the warrior, radiated an aura of strength, but she had not felt personally threatened. He did not make her feel as Ingvar did when in her company; as Torstein had made her feel. Indeed, when she had ridden away the sensation had been quite different, almost as though something had been lost. It was difficult to account for, difficult and perturbing. Unable to sleep, she crept from the bed and, wrapping herself in a mantle against the night air, went silently to the adjoining chamber where her son lay sleeping. For a long time she watched him. He was the one good thing to come from her marriage. His birth had been long and hard, but Eyvind made sense of all the rest; he was the reason she kept on living, the reason she submitted to Torstein’s will.

      Anwyn shivered and pulled her mantle closer. Torstein was dead. Her son was safe from him. She bent over the child and dropped a kiss on his forehead. He stirred a little, but did not wake. Looking at him lying there, she suddenly felt fiercely protective. As long as she had breath in her body no harm should come to him. She must look after his interests until he grew to manhood. Nothing else mattered now. It would not be easy; her family was ambitious and, as Jodis had said, a woman alone was vulnerable.

      Returning to bed, Anwyn curled up, pulling the coverlet close. Tired now, she closed her eyes and let her body relax, pushing the day’s events from her mind. Gradually the bed grew warmer and sleep eventually claimed her. However, it came with the same troubling dreams …

       Somewhere she heard a door opening, heavy footsteps in the outer chamber, a hand drawing aside the partitioning curtain to reveal her husband’s ursine figure silhouetted against the dim light beyond. At forty Torstein was more than twice her age. Though only of average height, his bulk reinforced the impression of bearlike strength. The dome of his head was bald, the remaining fringe of hair worn long and tightly braided into numerous thin plaits that hung past his shoulders like rats’ tails. A moustache